A Lady Who Loves Little People: “I have put all of our Christmas decorations away, except for a small ceramic monk holding a Christmas wreath. In answer to my husband’s question as to why I left this one decoration out, I told him that I wanted to write a BB story about how I came to own it. By keeping it out, I’d be reminded to do that.

“It was in May of 2007 (I know this because the student who gave it to me wrote the date and his and my name on the bottom of the statue), and a wonderful group of parents was making a big deal of teacher-appreciation week. Our middle-school students couldn’t help but notice the thoughtful things that were being done for the teachers, and some of them decided to show their appreciation in their own ways. Such was the case with ‘Willie,’ who came running up to my desk with the Christmas monk in his hand. He was bubbling with excitement as he handed me a gift. Willie was the smallest boy in my class and chronically ill. He had a mother who couldn’t speak without swearing and who had a reputation of ruining the day of any teacher with whom she came in contact. Since Willie came from a hardscrabble home, I wasn’t too surprised that he was giving me a Christmas monk in May. I just hoped that he hadn’t sneaked into his parents’ Christmas decorations and stolen it. My worries were put to rest when Willie excitedly exclaimed that his family had been Dumpster diving the evening before, and he had found this perfect gift in a large Dumpster! It was the first gift that I had (knowingly) received that had come from a Dumpster, so my mind was racing for a way to accept his gift in such a way that the rest of my class would know that I truly appreciated Willie’s thoughtfulness — and that there better not be any teasing. Willie’s face beamed with pride as he proudly explained how lucky he was to have come upon this ceramic monk. As he was talking, I realized that I would always treasure this gift because it was obvious how much giving it meant to Willie.

“While visiting us, our parish priest noticed Willie’s gift among the many, many other Christmas decorations spread throughout our home. He recognized the monk as a collector’s item and thought it was worth a little bit of money. As I reflected upon that May morning six and a half years ago, I couldn’t help but wonder if Willie or his parents knew it had monetary worth, and that is why he was so proud to give it to me. Since I don’t buy things in hope that they will become valuable as collector’s items, I had never paid any attention to the tag on the bottom of the statue. My little monk found in a Dumpster is priceless because of Willie’s joy in giving it to me. Even though I might not have recognized a collector’s item, Willie will always be precious to me because I do recognize the value of a little guy with a big heart.”

Hmmmmmmmm

Cars That Smell Like Pot Roast Division

The Farm Boy of St. Paul: “Subject: Hot beef.

“Lula Montana asked: ‘Is there anything about the combination of extreme cold and the heating system in a 14-year-old vehicle that would cause the interior to smell like pot roast?’

“Lula Montana, it’s almost certainly nothing to do with the age of the vehicle, and everything to do with the extreme cold. First, let me ask you something. Have you also noticed that your suspension seems shot? Like your car’s front end is sagging? Uh-huh. I thought so. Well, there is an explanation, but I have to warn you, it’s not pretty.

“Cows are tough, but even they need shelter from the extreme cold we experienced recently. I’m certain that one evening, after you had parked Nellie Belle for the night, a stray bovine in your neighborhood was attracted by the warmth of the engine, crawled up under the hood, and fell asleep. When you fired up Nellie Belle in the morning — pot roast!

“That’s why when we have weather like this, you should always honk your horn before starting your car in the morning. If you get a response, pop the hood and let the poor cow out.”

Resolved

Discover St. Paul Project Division

Again we have heard from Lula Montana: “There’s an old Sergio Mendes song, ‘Pretty World,’ that I was singing as I was walking down Summit Avenue Monday: ‘Why don’t we take a piece of summer sky and hang it on a tree, for that’s the way to start to make a pretty world for you and for me.’ It’s far from summer, but the temps were above zero and the sky clear blue. I parked Nellie Belle and walked several miles along this architectural gold mine — from the rowhouse at 599 Summit where F. Scott Fitzgerald lived, to the magnificent St. Paul Cathedral. I paused briefly at the top of Ramsey Hill to take in the view.

“There is such an interesting world out there. Unplug. Take a discovery walk. You may enjoy it so much that you’ll invest in some high-tech walking shoes.”

Our times (resp’l)

Jan. 14 email from NoSued Name: “Oh, the Joy of Juxtaposition! Although, considering the topic, a B-M would be much more appropriate!

“I just read Ghoti’s Mom‘s contribution in this morning’s BB — about the size of a roll of toilet paper changing! I checked my Facebook page, to be certain which day I posted my ‘rant’ about this subject, and it was January 12th!

“I had just restocked my supply, under the bathroom sink, with stock from a purchase made that very day. And things just seemed smaller, somehow. So I measured against the roll already on the stand, and I detected about a Ã…Â¸-inch difference — about the seam allowance a quilter learns early to eyeball. So I would certainly grant Ghoti’s Mom her 1/2-inch measurement. I had already thrown away the packaging, so couldn’t compare the measurements provided on it with the older size. No doubt, it would reflect the smaller size.

“I am certain, however, I did NOT read anything proclaiming the smaller size! Now, had things been made larger, I’m betting it would have been on the package!”

“The comic strip ‘Dustin’ is usually amusing, but today’s panel left me scratching my head. Dustin and his friend see a pooch with its head out a car window, and the friend suggests that it’s a brave dog because a dog’s year is thought to be the equivalent of seven human years: ‘So if that car’s doing 30 … to him it’s 210.’

“Hold on there, math wizard. If the dog’s life is spinning by seven times as fast as a human’s, and the car’s speed is 30 mph to a human, then wouldn’t that seem one-seventh as fast to a dog? That’s less than 4.29 mph to Fido, which hardly qualifies him as ‘brave.’ Heck, I go from vertical to horizontal on my icy driveway a whole lot faster than that!”

Know thy family!

Newport Reader: “The submission about the children sliding down the basement stairs in a box [BB, 1/12/2014] reminded me about a statement a friend made years ago about a family member’s messy basement: ‘If something fell down the stairs, it would never hit the bottom.’ ”

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